The Breeding Stand
by wendymarlowe
Summary: John loves when Sherlock is brilliant on cases, because it makes everything that much more incredible when he gets to take Sherlock home and take him apart. (AKA "wendymarlowe found a kinkmeme request for Johnlock porn involving a breeding stand.")


They burst back into 221B in a whirl of giggles and adrenaline. John barely stopped to take his own coat off before grabbing the lapels of Sherlock's Belstaff and slamming him against the wall in a great bruising kiss.

"You," John growled, "were _magnificent_. Hearing you rattle off the chain of deductions like that - it was all I could do to not tackle you right there and shag you boneless right in the middle of the crime scene. Pretty sure you wouldn't have stopped me."

He was probably right. Sherlock sagged against the Victorian wallpaper and moaned in a way he hoped would entice John to use his lips for something other than talking. The high after a case was always fantastic, but _this_ \- getting to experience John's possessive, dominant side after Sherlock had done something particularly brilliant - _this_ blew cocaine right out of the water. Five months in and Sherlock still couldn't get enough, would never grow bored of the way John's eyes narrowed and his posture changed into what Sherlock privately called "Captain Watson, RAMC." It was addictive and humbling and Sherlock was quite sure if John didn't touch him right now, he would _die_.

"Look at you - already trembling," John murmured in that low voice which never failed to get Sherlock's blood racing. "You want me to take you apart, don't you? Want me to take over that bloody great brain of yours?"

 _"Yes,"_ Sherlock breathed.

"Upstairs, then."

 _Oh, hell yes_. Sherlock nearly tripped over his own feet in his haste to make for the stairs. Somehow John's old bedroom had gradually transformed - it was still very definitely _John's space_ and John still used it for when he was angry at Sherlock and needed someplace to cool down, but mostly it housed their growing collection of "toys it would be awkward for Mrs. Hudson to find." Sherlock knew better than to go up there without an invitation, but when John did invite him . . .

The sight of the massive breeding stand in the middle of the floor would have stopped Sherlock dead if John hadn't been right there on the stairs behind him to propel him forward. Sherlock managed a strangled sort of _hnng_ , and John chuckled.

"Thought it was time to haul it out of the closet for another go," he said from somewhere in the vicinity of Sherlock's right shoulder. "You responded so well to it last time."

God, yes, he had. Sherlock could feel the goosebumps prickling over his skin. Last time, John had strapped him in good and tight and buggered him for what had felt like _hours_ and then they'd both slept like the dead for the better part of a day afterward. It had been the most transcendent experience of Sherlock's life and he could already feel his knees getting weak at the thought of experiencing all that over again.

John drew around to in front of Sherlock, his body blocking out the sight of the metal-and-leather contraption, and frowned thoughtfully. "The blindfold first," he finally announced. "You're too keyed up to enjoy yourself just yet."

That was probably accurate. Sherlock stood perfectly still as John rooted around in the wardrobe (everything military-neat in drawers and on pegs against the back wall; this was John's territory) and extracted a soft black blindfold. They didn't always use it, but the silky whisper of the fabric against his skin as John pulled it taut and knotted it behind his head did help Sherlock start to relax. Handing over control to John was a multi-step process - every step counted.

John's hands were gentle, too, as he slowly stripped off Sherlock's suit and pants. They both stayed silent but somehow communication was easier than ever - a fingertip here, a caress there. John interspersed the touches with occasional kisses to Sherlock's back, his hips, his chest, his nipples. One long breath over his damp nipple caused Sherlock to shiver, but he held his ground and kept his hands firmly at his sides. _I'm John's to play with. John's to own._ It was still a heady concept.

Finally Sherlock was naked except for the blindfold and he could hear John take a step back and just watch him for a long minute. ". . . Collar today," John murmured. "I'm going to clip you in and tie you down and you won't have to do _anything_. No moving, no thinking, no deducing. You won't even have to support your own weight. I'm going to use you in exactly the way I want to and it's going to be perfect because nothing today will be up to you. You've got absolutely no responsibilities until I let you back out again. Sound good?"

"Sounds incredible," Sherlock admitted. "Please, John."

There was some more shuffling from the direction of the wardrobe, then a cool, comfortable weight around Sherlock's neck. The collar. Butter-soft leather with a hint of warmth from where it had been in John's hand. John looped one blunt finger through the D-ring at the front and tugged Sherlock downward, keeping him slightly off-balance as he settled him into the breeding stand. Sherlock was sure he was visibly shivering, now, but he made no move to object.

The stand itself was a heavy iron base with two padded leather hoops extending vertically from it on sturdy posts. Everything was adjustable, but they'd worked out all the kinks last time and obviously John had just left it set to Sherlock's measurements. Sherlock allowed John to gently prod his legs wider as he knelt, until the larger of the hoops pressed properly low against his hips. John then palmed Sherlock's nape and forced him to bend lower, lower, until the open straps of the smaller hoop brushed his armpits. He held his position on hands and knees while John deftly fastened the leather straps around his shoulders and lower back - John pulled them deliciously tight, then loosened them each one notch so he could fit a fingertip between the leather and Sherlock's skin.

"Okay?" John murmured.

Sherlock nodded silently, his throat already too tight to allow him to speak. _Captured, pinned_ \- even though his hands were still technically free, he couldn't summon the strength. John hadn't lied - when Sherlock was in this position, strapped down with his bare arse in the air and his entire torso locked tightly in place, John had complete control. Sherlock didn't even have to support himself - the stand held him open and ready for John's attentions whether Sherlock participated or not. He was truly reduced to a convenient hole, held perfectly still and ready for fucking.

"So beautiful," John breathed. "I wish you could see yourself like this, Sherlock - you go and do something amazing like today, and then I get to take you home and strip you bare body and soul and you're _mine_. God, I can't wait to get inside you - you're bloody gorgeous like this."

His hand trailed over Sherlock's back and arse - not cruel, just assessing Sherlock's reactions. John's palm was warm and slightly rough with callouses and it left a trail of tingles in its wake. He kept his pattern of touches random, and by the time Sherlock was once again coherent enough to notice anything else, John had already clipped Sherlock's collar into the short lead connecting to the base of the breeding stand and had connected the wide leather straps over the tops of Sherlock's shoulders. No matter how vigorously Sherlock was fucked, John wouldn't accidentally shove him forward by even an inch.

"Please." Sherlock didn't realize he was saying it until the word was out of his mouth, but it was all the more heartfelt for being involuntary. John huffed in amusement.

"All right, you git." His hand returned to Sherlock's arse, rubbing, soothing. "I'd tell you to hold still, but I really don't have to."

He didn't. There was the click of a cap - John must have retrieved the lube when he was getting the collar - and then John's warm, slick fingers were prodding at Sherlock's arsehole. Sherlock let himself go limp with relief. He couldn't wriggle away, couldn't shift his weight, couldn't so much as lift his head without the collar digging painfully into his neck. He was well and truly _John's_ and the thought made him dizzy with anticipation.

John took his time slicking up Sherlock's hole. Sherlock was nearly crying by the time John added a second and then a third finger, teasing in and out of him in deft little touches which never quite reached where Sherlock needed them to. Sherlock's cock dangled heavy and neglected under his belly, but other than a single slick caress, John made no move to acknowledge it. This was about John's pleasure, not Sherlock's.

"So incredible." John removed his fingers - prompting an actual whine from Sherlock's lips - and there was a long moment of silence. And then Sherlock felt the blunt head of John's cock probing him, stretching him, and he actually _was_ crying behind the blindfold as John eased into him inch by delicious inch. The breeding stand held him completely immobile as John claimed him and it was _glorious_.

"God, Sherlock," John breathed. "The way you feel around me - I wish I could bottle this. I wish, in those dark days after I was shot and had to go through all that therapy, that I'd have known I would have _this_ to look forward to someday. Because you are truly the most amazing human being I have ever met and if I'd have known back then that I'd have _you_ , I would have raced back to London as soon as they let me out of my hospital bed. "You," he grunted as he shoved back in, "Are. Incredible."

Sherlock gave up trying to hide his strangled sobs.

"That's it," John coaxed as he flexed back and forth. "Let it all out - let me have it all. _All_ of you. I've got you, Sherlock - I can handle it. Just let me."

The pain of being breached had long-since faded, and Sherlock truly felt like he was floating. John's hips were pistoning behind him, his bollocks banging into Sherlock's at each thrust, and John had found _just_ the right angle so his cock grazed Sherlock's prostate almost every time. The whole world had condensed to _John_ and his words and his cock and his warmth against Sherlock's arse and if Sherlock could only reach that little bit more, if he could crest that peak-

"Do it," John ordered. "I know you can - come for me. Let me feel it through my cock as you turn yourself inside-out and come so hard you can't even breathe. I don't even have to touch you, do I? You can get off just from my cock in your arse and my voice in your ear. _Do it_."

Sherlock's mind went perfectly, blissfully blank as he came.

He dimly registered John tensing, too, and flopping heavily over his back, but it took a long time for Sherlock's brain to recover. John rolled off him and unbuckled the straps and cleaned him off with a damp flannel and half-shoved, half-carried him to what had once been John's bed. Sherlock couldn't bring himself to either help or resist. Eventually John slid under the covers beside him, curled on his side to be the big spoon, and kissed Sherlock's shoulder.

"Sleep," John murmured. "You're amazing and fantastic and I love you."

 _Yes. Yes to all of it._

Sherlock closed his eyes and slept.


End file.
